On, Off

by Colleen McCullough

  “If you mean joke, sir, I guess so. I bought it in London a few years ago, when Russian hats weren’t too popular with Joe McCarthy. Keeps the ears warm.”

  A middle-aged secretary stomped off with the clothes while Parson ushered Carmine into a smallish conference room equipped with six easy chairs ringed around a coffee table, and six dining chairs ringed around a higher table. The floor was parquet scattered with silk Persian carpets, the furniture bird’s-eye maple, the bookcases fronted with leaded-glass diamonds. Plush but businesslike, except for the paintings on the walls.

  “A part of Uncle William’s art collection,” said Spaight, indicating that Carmine should sit in an easy chair. “Rubens, Velásquez, Poussin, Vermeer, Canaletto, Titian. Strictly speaking the collection belongs to Chubb University, but we are at liberty to delay the bequest, and, candidly, we enjoy looking at them.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Carmine said, wondering as he put his posterior on the maroon leather of his chair whether any fabric as cheap as that of his pants had ever before besmirched it.

  “I understand,” said Roger Parson Junior, crossing one thin, elegantly sheathed leg over the other, “that the Hug is now the center of racial demonstrations.”

  “Yes, sir, whenever the weather’s bearable.”

  “Why aren’t you doing something about it?”

  “The last time I looked at the Constitution, Mr. Parson, it permitted orderly demonstrations of any kind, including racial,” Carmine said in a neutral voice. “If riots occur, we can act, not otherwise. Nor do we think it wise to use strong-arm tactics that might provoke riots. It’s embarrassing for the Hug, but its staff aren’t being molested as they come and go.”

  “You must admit, Lieutenant, that from where we stand, the Holloman police haven’t exactly shone at any time in the last two and a half months,” said Spaight, tight-lipped. “This murdering fellow seems to be running rings around all of you. Perhaps it’s time to call in the FBI.”

  “We are consulting the FBI regularly, sir, I can assure you, but the FBI is just as short of leads as we are. We have asked every state in the Union for particulars of crimes of a similar nature, with no positive results. In the past two weeks we have, for instance, checked the credentials and placement of several hundred substitute schoolteachers, with no positive results. Nothing that might offer a solution has been ignored.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Parson peevishly, “is why he is still at large! You must have some idea who is responsible!”

  “Police methodology depends on a network of connections,” Carmine said, having thought about what he was going to say as he made his long drive. “Under normal circumstances there is a pool of likely suspects, whether you’re talking murder or armed robbery or drug dealing. We all know each other, the criminals and the cops. We, the cop end of the equation, conduct our investigations down a well-worn track, because that’s how it works best. Men of my rank have been at the job long enough to have developed pretty shrewd instincts about who’s at the criminal end of the equation. Murders have patterns, signatures. Robberies have patterns, signatures. They lead us to those who did it.”

  “This murderer has a pattern, a signature,” said Spaight.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Mr. Spaight. This killer is a ghost. He abducts a girl, but he leaves not one single trace of himself behind. No one has ever seen him, even heard him. No girl seems to have known him. As soon as we realized he was into victims with a Caribbean background and had a chance to protect every girl of his type, he switched to a Connecticut black, Pennsylvania white cross. Same physical type of girl, but a different ethnic background. Taken from an inner-city high school with fifteen hundred students. He varied his technique in other ways I’m not at liberty to tell you. What I can tell you, sirs, is that we are no farther ahead than we were two and a half months ago. Because the network of connections isn’t there. He’s not a professional criminal, he’s an anonymous nonentity. A ghost.”

  “Might he have a record of some other crime? Rape?”

  “We’ve been there too, Mr. Parson, with a fine-toothed comb. My own feeling is that he’s as much a rapist as he is a killer, that maybe the rape is more important to him than the murder, that he only kills to make sure the victim can’t talk. I have personally gone through hundreds of files looking for anything that might suggest a rapist who’s raised the ante. When none of the convicted or accused rapists matched, I went to cases where the girl or woman dropped the charges — that happens often. I looked at pictures of girls, descriptions of their rape, but my cop instincts never stirred. If he was there, I’m sure they would have stirred.”

  “Then he must be young,” said Spaight.

  “What makes you say that, sir?”

  “His history is two years old. Such shocking crimes would surely have produced symptoms of mania before that if he were an older man.”

  “A good point, but I don’t think this killer is very young, no, sir. He’s cold, calculating, resourceful, without conscience or the shadow of a doubt. All that suggests maturity, not youth.”

  “Might he be of the same ethnic background as his victims?”

  “We had all thought of that possibility, Mr. Parson, until he crossed the ethnic line. One of the FBI psychiatrists thought he might look like his victims — same color, say — but if such a man exists, we haven’t spotted him and he doesn’t have a record.”

  “So what you’re really saying, Lieutenant, is that if — or when — this murderer is caught, it won’t be by any of your more traditional methods.”

  “Yes,” said Carmine flatly, “that’s what I’m really saying. Like so many others, he’ll crash by a fluke or an accident.”

  “Not an opinion that inspires confidence,” said Parson dryly.

  “Oh, we’ll get him, sir. We’ve pushed him into changes, and we’ll go on pushing him. I don’t think his frame of mind is as serene as it was.”

  “Serene?” asked Spaight, astonished. “Surely not!”

  “Why not?” Carmine countered. “He doesn’t have feelings, Mr. Spaight, as you and I understand feelings. He’s insane but sane.”

  “How many more girls are going to die an agonizing death?” Parson asked, the words barbed.

  Carmine’s face twisted. “If I could answer that question, I would know the killer’s identity.”

  A uniformed maid came in wheeling a cart and proceeded to set the higher table.

  “I trust you’ll stay for lunch, Lieutenant?” Roger Parson Junior asked, rising to his feet.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sit down, do.”

  Carmine seated himself to look at Lenox tableware.

  “We are patriots,” said Spaight, sitting on Carmine’s right as Parson went to Carmine’s left. Fenced in.

  “In what way, Mr. Spaight?”

  “American tableware, American linens. American everything, really. It was Uncle William who liked foreign matter.”

  Foreign matter. Not the phrase I’d use to describe the rug, thought Carmine. Or the Velásquez.

  A butler and the maid waited on table: Nova Scotia smoked salmon with thin brown bread-and-butter, roast veal au jus with pommes Lyonnaise and steamed spinach, a cheese plate and superb coffee. No alcohol.

  “The martini lunch,” said Richard Spaight, “is a curse. If I know a client has indulged in one, I will not see him. Business requires a clear head.”

  “So does policing,” said Carmine. “In that respect, Commissioner Silvestri runs a dry ship. No alcohol unless off duty, and no lushes on the force.” He was facing the Poussin, dreamily beautiful. “It’s lovely,” he said to his host.

  “Yes, we chose tranquil works for this room. The wartime Goyas are in my office. On your way out, however, don’t miss our one and only El Greco. It’s under armored glass at the end of the corridor,” Roger Parson Junior said.

  “Have you ever been robbed of any art?” the cop had to ask.

  “N
o, it’s too difficult to get in. Or perhaps it is that there are plenty of easier targets. This is a city of wonderful art. I often amuse myself by working out how I’d steal a good Rembrandt from the Metropolitan or a Picasso from the private dealer on Fifty-third. Were I serious, I believe neither would be impossible.”

  “Maybe your Uncle William knew the tricks too.”

  Richard Spaight tittered. “He certainly did! In his day it was a great deal easier, of course. If you were at Pompeii or in Florence, all you had to do was tip the guide ten dollars. You should see the Roman mosaic floor in the conservatory at the old house in Litchfield — magnificent.”

  Merry Christmas, ha ha, Carmine thought as he climbed into the pre-warmed Ford to commence the drive home. It isn’t either of them, though if a Rembrandt goes missing from the Metropolitan, I can tip off the NYPD where to look. M.M. will be under the ground before that bunch give up Uncle William’s collection, even if it is foreign matter.

  Chapter 13

  Friday, December 24th, 1965

  “Oh, bother!” said Desdemona, nose twitching. “That wretched sewer vent is playing up again.” For a moment she debated whether to knock on her landlord’s door as she went down the stairs, then decided against it. He wasn’t too pleased at the presence of cops on his premises, and had been hinting that it might be better if Desdemona found herself new digs. So she would bear the sewer vent without another confrontation.

  When she opened her door the stench of feces hit her forcibly, but she didn’t notice. All she saw was the blackened, congested face of Charlie, the cop who usually took the night watch on a Thursday night. He was lying as if he had struggled desperately, arms and legs akimbo, but it was the face, the face…Swollen, tongue protruding, eyes bulging. Part of Desdemona wanted to scream, but that would have marked her as a typical woman, and Desdemona had spent half a lifetime proving to the world that she was any man’s equal. Hanging on to the door jambs, she forced herself to remain unmoving for long enough to be sure she could stand. Tears gathered, fell. Oh, Charlie! Such a boring duty, he had told her once, asking for a book. He’d gone through everything he fancied in the County Services library, which wasn’t many. A Raymond Chandler or a Mickey Spillane? But the best she had been able to offer him was an Agatha Christie, which he hadn’t liked or understood.

  There, that did it. Desdemona let go of the jambs and began to turn to retreat to her phone. Then she noticed the big piece of paper stuck over the window that let light into the upper landing. Glaringly black on glaring white, immaculate printing.

  YOU’RE A SNEAK,

  YOU UTTER FREAK!

  THAT DAGO FELLOW

  IS NO OTHELLO,

  BUT I’LL GET YOU YET!

  UNTIL THAT DAY — SWEAT!

  “Carmine,” she said calmly when he came on the line, “I need you. Charlie is dead. Murdered.” A gulp, a long intake of breath. “Right outside my door. Please come!”

  “Is it still open?” he asked, equally calm.

  “Yes.”

  “Then shut it, Desdemona, right this minute.”

  Hardly any desk sergeant had ever seen Carmine Delmonico go past at a run, but he was flying, Abe and Corey racing behind with his coat, his hat, his scarf. Not a minute later Patrick O’Donnell was on his tail.

  “Wow!” said Sergeant Larry D’Aglio to his clerk. “The shit must be hitting the fan in all directions.”

  “Not on a morning like this,” said the clerk. “Too cold.”

  “Garotted with piano wire,” said Patrick. “The poor bastard! He put up a fight, but reflexive. The wire was round his neck and through the loop before he knew what was happening.”

  “Loop?” asked Carmine, turning from the doggerel on the window.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. A loop at one end of the wire, a wooden handle at the other. Slip the handle through the loop, step back, and yank with all your might. Charlie never managed to lay a hand on him.”

  “Then he stuck up his notice cold as ice — look at it, Patsy! Absolutely straight, exactly in the middle of the pane — how did he fix it there?”

  Patrick looked up and looked amazed. “Jesus!”

  “Well, Paul can tell us when he takes it down.” Carmine squared his shoulders. “Time I knocked on her door.”

  “How was she when she phoned it in?”

  “Not gibbering, at any rate.” He knocked, called out loudly. “Desdemona, it’s Carmine! Let me in.”

  Her face was pinched and white, her hands shook, but she was in command of herself. No excuse to take her in his arms and try to comfort her.

  “Some red herring,” she said.

  “Yes, he’s upped the ante. What have you got to drink?”

  “Tea. I’m English, we don’t go in for cognac. Just tea. Made the proper way, on leaves, not bags. Holloman is quite a civilized place, you know. There’s a tea and coffee shop where I can get Darjeeling.” She led the way to her kitchen. “I made it when I heard the sirens.”

  No mugs; cups and saucers, frail, hand painted. The teapot was covered with what looked like a Dolly Varden doll, its spout and handle poking out of opposite ends of a thickly padded crinoline finished with frills. Milk, sugar, cookies even. Well, maybe scrupulous attention to domestic rituals is her way of being strong. Coping.

  “Milk in first,” she said, lifting the doll off the pot.

  He wasn’t game to tell her that he took it the American way, weak, no milk, a slice of lemon. So he sipped the scalding liquid politely and waited.

  “You saw the notice?” she asked, looking better for the tea.

  “Yes. You can’t stay here now, of course.”

  “I doubt I’d be let! My landlord wasn’t happy about my guards. Now he’ll be foaming at the mouth. But where can I go?”

  “Protective custody. We keep an apartment in my building for people like you.”

  “I can’t afford the rent.”

  “Protective custody means no rent, Desdemona.”

  Why was she such a miser?

  “I see. Then I’d better start packing. I don’t have much.”

  “Have some more tea first, and answer some questions. Did you hear anything unusual during the night? See Charlie?”

  “No, I heard nothing. I’m a deep sleeper. Charlie said hello when he arrived — I heard him come in, even though it was later than my usual bedtime. He’s usually on the cadge for a book, even if he doesn’t like my choice of authors very much.”

  “Did you give him one last night?” No need to tell her that Charlie wasn’t supposed to read on duty.

  “Yes, a Ngaio Marsh. The name intrigued him, he didn’t know how to pronounce it. I thought he might like her better than Agatha Christie — Marsh’s victims usually die in a terrible mess of excrement.” She shuddered. “Just like Charlie.”

  “Any sign that he actually entered this apartment?”

  “No, and believe me, I’ve looked. Not a pin out of place.”

  “But he could have. This is one thing I didn’t count on.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Carmine, please.”

  He got up. “Does anything ever make you scream, Desdemona?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said gravely. “Spiders and cockroaches.”

  “Zilch as usual,” Patrick said in Silvestri’s office. “No fingerprints, no fibers, no detritus of any kind. He must have used a measure on the window, the notice — it’s too big to be called a note — was so perfectly placed. Equidistant to a millimeter. And he fixed it with four little balls of Plasticene, pressed the four corners into it, even adjusted the left side to raise it a fraction. And he’s an original! It was done in forty-eight-point Times Bold Letraset. On paper thin enough to have put a lined graticule behind it — every letter is dead even. Cheap cartridge drawing block, the kind kids buy at any big chain store. He pressed the Letraset down with something rounded and metal — a knife handle or maybe a scalpel handle. Not a stylus, too blunt.”

  “Can you g
et any idea of how big his hands are from the way he pressed the paper into the Plasticene?” Marciano asked.

  “No. I think he put a rag between his fingers and the paper.”

  “What made you say the garotte was unusual, Patsy?” Carmine asked, sighing. “A loop and handle’s not that unique.”

  “This one is. The handle isn’t wood as I thought. It’s a carved human femur. But he didn’t carve it. It looks incredibly old, so I’m carbon dating it. The wire is piano wire.”

  “Did it bite in hard enough to cut the skin?” Silvestri asked.

  “No, just hard enough to occlude the airway and carotids.”

  “He’s used one before.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s had plenty of practice.”

  “But he left his garotte behind. Does that mean he’s finished playing with this toy?” Abe asked.

  “I’d say so.”

  “Do you still think Desdemona Dupre is a red herring?” asked Corey, more upset then the others; Charlie’s wife was great friends with his own wife.

  “I can’t believe she’s anything else!” Carmine cried, hands in his hair. “She’s no dummy — if she knew anything, she’d have told me.”

  “What’s your theory on her, Carmine?” Silvestri asked.

  “That he picked her for several reasons. One, that she’s a loner. Easier to get at. Another, that she’s about as far from his victim type as women can get. And maybe most important of all, he knows that Desdemona is the one Hugger I make use of, always have done. The note — notice — calls her a sneak.”

  “What about the notice?” Silvestri pressed.

  “Oh, it’s a doozy, sir! I mean, the phraseology is more an international English than it is American. He punctuates. ‘Dago’ is used here, but it’s old-fashioned. These days we’re Wops. He indicated his degree of education by referring to me as Othello, whose wife was Desdemona.” He caught the look on Corey’s face and extrapolated. “A real piece of goods named Iago worked on Othello’s possessiveness, his passion for Desdemona. Made Othello think she was unfaithful. So Othello strangled her. Given the circumstances, a garotte was probably as close to strangulation as he could get.”